The Price of War
by Akiko Natsuko
Summary: The war had left its mark on all of them. Not just in terms of physical scars, although they'd all accumulated more than a few of those during their time at the front. Those they could live, it was the other changes, the scars beneath the surface that were harder to identify and deal with.


The war had left its mark on all of them.

Not just in terms of physical scars, although they'd all accumulated more than a few of those during their time at the front. Those they could live, it was the other changes, the scars beneath the surface that were harder to identify and deal with.

It was there in the way that Aramis was working far too hard to try and fit back in with them, and the way he seemed to retreat around them, when the memories of what they had endured came up in conversation, as though he had no right to be there although they had long since agreed that it was water under the bridge. It was there in the way that Porthos would occasionally stiffen at a particularly loud noise, even freezing occasionally if a gun fired too close to him, although he always recovered quickly enough for them to let it slide for the time being. And it was there in the way that D'Artagnan held himself with new confidence, even when his eyes would sometimes drift off to some distant point that only he could see, and that it would take him a while to come back from.

It was there in the way that Athos' hands shook.

It hadn't much in the beginning, just a tremble in the aftermath of a fight, one that only settled when he'd made sure that the others were okay.

_He had lost another six men today. He might not have known them all well, but he could name then all, had fought beside them, and that was a bond that couldn't be easily forgotten. He tried to tell himself that this was war and that such losses were expected. He tried to remind himself that at least Porthos and D'Artagnan were still with him, bruised and battered, but alive,_

_It didn't help, and his hands still trembled that morning as he dressed, feeling the weight of the battle to come pressing in on him._

_I could still lose them._

The war felt closer now. He could see it when he looked at the others, even at Aramis, and more than once he wished that he had the words to tell the marksman not to pull away from them. That the fact that he hadn't experienced the war and had stories from a life beyond the death and bloodshed was a much-needed balm for all their souls. It also made each fight – and the perchance for finding trouble certainly hadn't abated – seem that much heavier, the stakes much higher, because he couldn't lose any more men. Especially not these ones.

_Not them._

Then it got worse.

A violent shaking that consumed him whenever he woke from one of the nightmares that occurred with increasing frequency. Dreams where he lost them, as he had lost so many, and it was as he sat on the edge of his bed, trembling hands buried in his hair, that he realised he had seen far too much death. That in his mind he could see his friends die in a thousand different ways. There was nothing but time that could ease that shaking, and it could take hours, right until the sun began to peek through the shutters before it had abated enough for him to face the world.

That was harder to hide, just because the exhaustion was written across his face. Already pale skin turning paler, and deep, bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes from the long hours spent awake just waiting for the shaking to fade. Then there were the mornings where a faint tremor would remain, and even though he tried to conceal it as much as possible, he knew that the others had noticed. Seeing it in the worried sideways glances, and the way that Aramis and Porthos would make sure that they were stood between him and the other men as often as possible, and the way that D'Artagnan would make a joke or shift the conversation if too much attention was on him. He loved them for it, even as he hated himself for the weakness.

It didn't fade.

But it did ease.

Aramis found his place amongst them once more, never one to be kept down as long, and gradually he stopped shrinking away from talk of the war. Perhaps, in part because of Athos, because his gaze would drift to Athos' hands as they talked, waiting for the inevitable tremor. At those times, he would break in with stories of the monastery and the mischief the children would get up to, telling sillier and sillier stories until the trembling eased enough to be unnoticeable. Porthos stopped flinching as much at sudden loud noises, although it didn't fade away altogether, but he would go and watch Aramis train, laughing and teasing with him as though nothing had changed. And on those brief occasions when he would still flinch and tense, he would immediately shout that he was okay to the others, although they all knew it was for Athos' sake. D'Artagnan seemed to change the least, although he spent less time gazing off into the distance, his eyes focused fully on the future and Constance. But he was a steady presence at Athos' side, a distraction when the trembling got too bad and Athos was desperately trying to cling to the present, to the fact that they were there and alive. Or, silent companion, on those days when the memories were too close to the surface, and Athos needed the quiet to work his way through them.

With time the nightmares eased and became less frequent, and the memories dimmed even though he doubted they would ever fade completely. There were days where his hands were as steady as they had been before the war when he would practice with the others and laugh at their antics and feel as though maybe one day it would be okay. There were days when his hands shook so badly, that he feared that it would never stop, but that was okay in its own way too, because they were there, each helping in their own way, And there were days when he set a trembling hand on the hilt of his sword, mind awash in remembered blood and death, and he reaffirmed his promise not to lose another man, no matter the cost.


End file.
